ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ
The night was silent, save for the occasional whisper of the wind that seeped through the curtains, now swaying dangerously close to the flickering candle on the far side of the room. The moonlight spilled through the open window, casting an eerie glow on the chaos within. The bed was a mess-sheets tangled, pillows strewn about as if a battle had been waged upon them. A half-filled bottle of alcohol rested on the wooden table, its reflection glistening among the shattered glass that lay scattered across the floor like forgotten stars.
A man stood near the window, his shirtless frame rigid with tension. Bruises marred his sculpted back, a testament to his rage, his battles-both within and beyond. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember flaring as he took a deep drag, the smoke curling around his sharp jawline. His hands were stained with blood, fresh from where he had crushed the glass with his bare palm.
With a slow, deliberate turn, he faced the dimly lit room, his broad chest heaving with restrained fury. His expression was unreadable-mischievous yet menacing, dominant yet haunted. The anger simmering in his veins finally erupted as he grabbed the bottle of alcohol and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the curtains, the liquid splattering like ink on parchment. His fingers found the lighter in his pocket, flicking it open with an ease born of habit. A flame danced to life, illuminating the darkness, casting a golden glow on the only pristine thing in the room-the painting hanging above the bed.
A girl.
Her eyes held a beauty that defied reason, deep pools of mystery and innocence. The contours of her face were divine, her very existence an artist's masterpiece. She was a walking vision, untouchable yet hauntingly near. He stepped closer, his gaze locked onto hers, even in painted form. A twisted smirk played on his lips as he murmured in a deep, commanding tone,
"Jaldi hi tum mere kabze mein hogi... mere iss pinjare mein qaid."
With that, he tossed the lighter towards the alcohol-drenched curtains. The flames devoured them hungrily, spreading with a vengeance, licking the walls, consuming everything in their path. He didn't flinch. Instead, he turned, picking up the painting with careful hands, his grip possessive
A voice interrupted the crackling fire.
"Chhote Sahab, what have you done again?" The tone held a hint of frustration, yet it remained laced with respect.
He didn't turn. He simply watched the inferno grow, a storm brewing in his darkened eyes.
"This is the sixtieth room you've burnt..." Zorawar's voice carried a quiet exasperation.
He finally spoke, his voice cold, unforgiving. "That room reeked of betrayal. And AGNIV RAGHUWANSHI does not tolerate betrayal. If I ever do-" he let out a dark chuckle, "-I turn it to ashes."
Zorawar inhaled sharply before asking, "Whose betrayal, Chhote Sahab? Yours? That's not a betrayal-"
Agniv cut him off," It is." His grip on the painting tightening. "Because these are the places where I slept with women."
"This is my way of taking out my anger. The only way to silence the storm inside me. And the rage of knowing that Agniv Raghuvanshi is unable to claim a girl who should already be mine."
And then Zorawar said, "But Chhote Sahab, it was before you met her."
He replied, "It doesn't matter whether it was before or after I met her; it's still a betrayal."
He turned to Zorawar, his expression unreadable yet lethal. "find the girl."
𝘼𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙫 𝙍𝙖𝙜𝙝𝙪𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙝𝙞
